


broken

by Eguinerve



Category: Arthurian Mythology, La Légende du Roi Arthur - Savio & Skread & Zaho/Chouquet/Attia
Genre: Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Physical Disability, Pining, Post-Canon, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27669980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eguinerve/pseuds/Eguinerve
Summary: Maleagant survives his fight with Lancelot, but at what cost?A story of recovery, both physical and mental.
Relationships: Arthur/Maleagant (La Légende du Roi Arthur)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 15





	1. a new beginning

**Author's Note:**

> If you are enjoying this story, please consider leaving a comment! It would mean a lot to me.

The sunset over the lake is breathtaking.

The skies are painted crimson and gold, their reflection in the still expanse of water is perfect and undisturbed. The air smells of wet leaves, pine needles, and smoke, and when Arthur takes a chestful of it, he almost feels calmness spreading through him. 

He thinks he could’ve learned to love Gore, its vast lands rich in color and warmth, so mesmerizingly beautiful it’s hard to believe they belong to the mortal realm.

He _wants_ to love Gore, but when he looks into his heart, worn out and shriveled, he can’t find enough feeling to give it away. 

He’s tired. 

He’s so unbelievably _tired_ , exhausted by the life that he lives. The weight of responsibility on his shoulders is staggering. The wars he fought, the people he lost, they all drag him down into the deepest pits of despair, and there is no one by his side to save him from falling. 

Arthur doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. 

Three years have passed since Guinevere and Lancelot’s betrayal, enough time to let the wound on his heart heal and scar over, but while it no longer aches, he still feels like something is _missing_. 

Try as he might, Arthur couldn’t return to being the person he was.

That boy was foolish and naive, prone to anger but unable to hold grudges, unafraid to dream but content with what he had. That boy easily made friends and fell in love within minutes and didn’t let disappointments linger and poison his heart. 

That boy is _lost_ now. 

Perhaps he simply grew up. Grew bitter and jaded, wary of people he once needed so much—needs _still_ , for he’s so unbearably lonely. He may have learned to guard his heart, but living like that is _unbearable_ , no friends and no lovers, just _subjects_. 

He feels alienated from those who surround him, he seeks loneliness and _hates_ it. He sought it once more when he ran from the feast in his honor, from celebrations and laughter and carefree delight that he envied too much. 

He couldn’t blame Gore for being welcoming. 

King Bagdemagus was cordial and generous in his offer to let the High-King and his knights fully enjoy their hospitality before the dealings start. Arthur knew this was what his people needed, rich food and tart wine, a good hunt and company of a sweet maiden. He voiced no protest to their prolonged stay, but deep in his heart he _loathed_ every moment of leisure, every moment he had to put on a mask and smile and keep the conversation going when all that he wanted was _quiet_. 

Perhaps with someone to _share_ it, but that seemed like too much to ask. 

At least he was able to get away. 

At least here, on the bank of the lake not too far from the castle, he can enjoy the illusion of peace and the sweet lie of being _content_.

Of course, this doesn’t last.

Arthur tenses up the moment he hears a rustling of leaves and a sound of slow, uneven footsteps behind his back. He didn’t think that people would simply leave him alone, but he still foolishly hoped he’d have enough time to recuperate and put himself together, and yet— 

The footsteps stop abruptly as if whoever came here didn’t expect to have company.

Perhaps Arthur wasn’t followed after all, but does it change much?

“ _Arthur_.” 

Arthur recognises the voice. It’s been a while—almost four years _—_ since he heard it last, it sounds _different_ now, tired and hoarse and void of familiar arrogance, and yet there is no doubt about who it belongs to. 

Arthur exhales. The tension doesn’t leave him, but the wariness he feels is nothing but an echo of the past. This man can’t hurt him, can’t hurt _anyone_ , and that is— 

He shuts out the thought and forces himself to turn around. 

“Maleagant,” he greets.

The sight of him is _pitiful_. 

Sickly and gaunt, he hardly looks alive. His eyes are dull, his cheeks are sunken, his hair is matted and streaked with early grey. 

His bony fingers tightly clasp the handle of the cane. 

Arthur swallows. 

What happened to Maleagant has never been a secret to him.

There was a brief time he was believed to be dead, killed by Lancelot’s hand, but this was proven to be false a few months later. He _did_ survive, he won the battle for his life that lasted several long weeks, but the price he paid for that was awfully high. 

At the time Arthur got the news, he felt nothing but relief that he’d no longer have to worry about Maleagant’s attempts to usurp the throne, but now he is ashamed of never even inquiring about his former rival’s health. 

“Forgive me,” Maleagant murmurs. “I had no intention to intrude on your solitude. Arthur, I—” he winces. “ _Sire—_ ” 

He grits his teeth and casts a quick, restless gaze over his shoulder. The castle isn’t far away, but even such a short walk must pose a challenge to a man of his health. 

The corner of Maleagant’s mouth pulls downwards. There is shame in his eyes, naked and feverishly bright, and more than anything Arthur wants to assure him there is no _reason_ for it. He’s not at fault for his body’s weakness. 

“Please, don’t apologize,” Arthur says. “And please, do call me by my given name. You always did, and nothing truly changed between—” 

“ _Everything_ changed,” Maleagant interrupts, and though for the briefest of moments his eyes flash with anger, it fizzles out too quickly and leaves just exhaustion behind. 

“Everything changed, Arthur,” he says quieter. “I’m not foolish enough to deny it. It’s true there was a time when I could insist we are equal, but even then it was nothing but a lie, an illusion that made it easier to…”

He presses his lips into a thin line and grows silent. He must be wary of revealing too much, being too _open_ before the man he’s always considered his rival, but Arthur catches himself wishing things were different between them. 

It’s such an odd and unexpected, but not unwelcome thought. 

“Look at me,” Maleagant adds bitterly. “I’m broken. I would’ve bent the knee before you, but I doubt that’s something I can do now.”

 _Broken_. 

The word sounds final, it sounds like a sentence, but does it _have_ to be? 

Maleagant is still a noble, the only heir to the kingdom of Gore. The strength of his will is worth more than the strength of his body, but— 

Can Arthur fault him for losing it too? 

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks quietly.

He’s surprised to find that _he_ doesn’t want that. Not long ago he dreaded the thought of having to keep someone company, but for the reason he can’t quite put into words, Maleagant’s presence doesn’t feel intrusive or unwelcome. 

Perhaps it’s that with him there is no need to pretend. No need to seem put together and strong and content with his life, that would be almost _cruel_ , and that’s the last thing he wants to be. He takes no pleasure in Maleagant’s suffering, he hates the mere thought of _adding_ to it… 

And yet he finds an odd sort of comfort in the thought that both of them are deeply unhappy. 

Maleagant raises his eyes to meet Arthur’s. He holds his gaze for a moment that feels too long, then simply shakes his head. 

“Stay if that’s what you want,” he says. “I’ll stay. I won’t make it back.”

His lips curve into a bitter, self-deprecating smile, his eyes are almost _hateful_. He's always been too ambitious, too prideful to simply let himself be weak.

Arthur can’t blame him for that, and yet— 

He’s seen too many warriors drown in self-loathing after losing their ability to fight, he’d seen them losing their will to live and slowly wasting away. 

He doesn’t want Maleagant to repeat their fate. 

“Do you need…” Arthur starts, then shakes his head. “Let me help you sit down.”

It isn’t hard to guess that Maleagant overestimated his own strength. He needs to rest before he can even attempt to go back, and even then he’ll likely need help. 

Though it’s unlikely Malegant would ever admit it, it’s _fortunate_ they’ve met. 

Maleagant presses his lips into a thin line and nods. 

He takes a few shaky steps forwards and leans against the tree, silently watching as Arthur spreads his cloak on the ground. The grass is wet, but the fabric is thick and sturdy enough not to let the dew seep through. 

“How do we?..” 

Arthur rubs the back of his head, unsure how they should proceed. He wouldn’t hesitate with any of his knights, but being too familiar with Maleagant seems— not wrong, not exactly, but _discomfiting_. 

Maleagant’s mouth twitches. He lets go of his cane that uselessly clatters to the ground, grips Arthur’s shoulder, allowing him to take on his weight. He smells of bitter healing herbs and sweat, of _sickness_ , and while there is nothing repulsive in that, it’s— saddening. 

A painful reminder of Maleagant’s awful state. 

“Easy,” Arthur murmurs. 

He wraps his arm around Maleagant’s waist to slowly lower him to the ground, he tries to be _careful_ but doesn’t think he quite succeeds. 

Maleagant hisses through his teeth. He doesn’t seem to be in pain, simply annoyed by Arthur’s attempt at coddling, but his expression is tight and his muscles are visibly trembling. His injury _tortures_ him still. Living like this is something Arthur wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, and Maleagant— 

He’s _not_ his enemy. Perhaps he’s never been. 

Their rivalry pushed Arthur to become a better man, a better ruler, and even the worst of Maleagant’s actions weren’t enough to ignite hatred in his heart. 

Now there is only pity left, a _sympathy_ that for some reason cuts too deep. Arthur can’t quite explain to himself why he cares so much, why everything in him longs to help and make things just a little better, but he— 

He’s too sick of his own apathy not to welcome this feeling. 

Finally, they settle on the ground. 

Unclasping a flask of water from his belt, Arthur offers it to Maleagant. He takes it without a protest, drinks in big, hungry gulps, and for some reason Arthur can’t make himself stop staring at him. In the tricky light of sunset his features seem even sharper, the shadows under his eyes deeper and his paleness more sickly. 

There was a time he was considered a handsome man, his beauty rare and striking, and now— 

Now, Arthur can’t think of a word that would be appropriate. 

There is nothing ugly in Maleagant’s sickness, he just looks— _fragile_ , like he doesn’t quite belong to this world, and Arthur can’t help but fear that maybe some awkward touch or the wrong word would simply _break_ him.

But then, Maleagant already considers himself broken. 

“I hoped to never see you again,” Maleagant says quietly, studying the flask in his hands. “I hoped _you_ would never see me like this. It’s— _pathetic_.” 

He meets Arthur’s gaze and offers him a thin mocking smile, but there is nothing but pain in his eyes. Nothing but sadness and shame and _defeat_. 

A sharp pang of pity pierces Arthur’s heart. 

“No,” he says. “It’s _not_. And I’m— I’m sorry this happened to you.” 

Maleagant winces. These words must sound so _empty_ to him, they won’t change a thing, but they are all that Arthur can offer. If only he could do _more—_

“I’m sure you’d rather see me dead.” Maleagant’s lips twitch. “ _Believe me_ , that is the sentiment I share fully.” 

Tossing the flask on the ground, he hitches up the sleeve of his tunic to bare up his forearm, and Arthur doesn’t want to look at it— he _doesn’t_ , because he already knows what he’s going to see. 

Thin, jagged scar bisects Maleagant’s pale skin, from the wrist and to the crook of his elbow. An ugly sign of ultimate defeat and unmistakable intention to _end it all._

Arthur swallows the bile that gathers at the back of his throat. 

Maleagant reveals it so easily, he almost _flaunts_ the very thing that feels Arthur’s heart with sickening dread. It is _forbidden_ , a brand like this can never be erased, and Gods don’t welcome those who dare to meddle in their affairs. 

Three years Arthur spent loathing his very existence, unable to find a reason to go on, and yet the thought to end his life has never, _ever_ crossed his mind. 

He doesn’t want to compare their suffering, Maleagant’s fate was so much worse…

It’s just that the depth of his misery _scares_ Arthur. 

“I tried to put an end to my existence, to leave the pain behind and take away the worth from my mistakes.” Maleagant swipes his thumb across the scar, stretching the skin until it looks silvery-white. “I _failed_.” He chuckles bitterly. “Of course I failed, whenever it was any different? I would’ve tried again, I wouldn’t have given up so easily, _trust_ me, but I—” 

He grits his teeth and doesn’t continue. 

His frankness is almost surprising, but then, Maleagant has always worn his heart on his sleeve. He’s never been an _enigma_ , he easily revealed his passions and distastes, and that is why—

That is why, Arthur realizes with sudden clarity, he never truly _distrusted_ him. 

“I’ve never wished for your death,” he says softly. “And I’ve never wished for you to suffer.”

There isn’t a sliver of a lie in his words, nothing but utter sincerity. 

When Arthur had his chance to kill Malegant, he didn’t take it. He _couldn’t_. 

He _knew_ him, he used to watch him compete in tournaments, so striking and brilliant and full of life. He wasn’t some nameless foe, his cause was rightful and just, and _nothing_ he ever did deserved the death sentence. 

Maleagant covers the scar with his palm and averts his eyes. His eyelashes tremble. 

“Why?” he asks.

 _Why_. 

Gods, does he really have to ask? 

Arthur rubs his face and sighs. 

“Because…” He turns his gaze to the expanse of the lake, no longer still but rippled by the chill autumn wind. It almost echoes the unrest in his heart. “Because I have no hatred for you. Perhaps it’s rather naive of me to think that, but there is too much evil in this world to consciously wish it on another.” 

Arthur doesn’t understand vengeance, he doesn’t find joy or relief in the suffering of others. No matter how bitter and jaded life made him, he still doesn’t want to be the person willing to hurt because _he_ ’s hurting. 

“I’ve passed a lot of sentences,” he says. “I’ve killed a lot of people, but not once in my life it was something I _wanted_.” 

He knows war well and he detests it. 

He’s a poor peacemaker, he lacks both eloquence and subtlety of touch, but if he truly believed there could be a chance to resolve his and Maleagant’s conflict with ink instead of iron, he would have taken it gladly. 

Perhaps then, they both would be much happier. 

“Sometimes I wonder if there was ever a chance for me to avoid this fate,” Maleagant says, his voice quiet and musing. “If I never challenged you for the throne, if I never tried to force my affections on Guinevere… I wanted _everything,_ unwilling to settle for a lesser prize, but in the end I’ve _lost_ everything. Even those things I thought were mine to keep.” 

His health and his ability to fight, his _will to live_. 

With a heavy sign, Arthur leans against the tree behind his back and raises his gaze towards the darkening skies. They are still clear despite the wind picking up, the air is cold and crisp, and Maleagant’s presence by his side is—

It’s oddly _calming_ , even if his words bring unrest. 

“I used to think I was born unlucky,” Maleagant adds as the silence between them stretches. “I had a noble title and riches, I had a loving family, and yet no matter what goals I tried to set for myself I _always_ failed to achieve them. Still, I refused to give up. Again and again, I got off the ground to walk the same path, believing that _this_ time I surely would succeed, but— That couldn’t have lasted forever, could it? Now I simply _can’t_ walk. My feet won’t hold me.” 

He huffs a laugh, humorless, resentful and bitter. 

Arthur doesn’t have to look at him to see how much _pain_ he’s in, how it claws at him, vengeful and alive, never satisfied and never _over_. 

“Do you know where you’d want to go?” he asks quietly. 

This is the question he asked himself too many times, this is the question the answer to which he _hated_. 

Does Maleagant still cherish the dreams of the past? Does he still long for glory and love and respect? Does he want _anything_ besides for his pain to end?

Where would he go if he could? 

Arthur’s feet hold him well, his body is capable and strong, but when his mind is a mess, his heart a gaping wound, no path seems worth taking. 

When he was younger, his dreams were simple. He had no trouble finding genuine joy in ordinary things, in fighting in the tournaments or feasting with his friends, in kissing barmaids or competing with the knights. He was the happiest with Guinevere, his beautiful beloved wife, and he believed that this would last forever… 

It didn’t. He lost his love, his friends and his ability to trust. The things that brought him joy no longer matter, his sweetest memories are tainted with bitterness and lies, so _what_ is he to wish for now? 

It must be the most awful curse to yearn for something and have no strength to reach it, but how could wanting _nothing_ be any less excruciating? 

Maleagant exhales. 

“No,” he says. “No, I don’t. It would be so much _easier_ , but—” 

Swallowing painfully, he stares at the net of whitish scars covering his knuckles. Rubs the brightest of them as if he’s hoping to erase it. 

“I was supposed to die in that fight,” he says. “I knew I went too far, I sacrificed my morals and my honor for a mere chance to reach something I was never meant to have, and I _deserved_ to die. I _welcomed_ it. Perhaps it’s not surprising then that I survived,” he chuckles. “When I woke up for the first time after weeks spent half-conscious, I didn’t feel my legs. The healers said I’ll never walk again.” 

And yet he _does_. 

He overcame the direst of predictions, and that makes him so much stronger than he gives himself credit for. There was a time Arthur thought him a man worth admiring, and once again this holds true.

Without aim, without will to live, Maleagant still pushed through agony and despair, he didn’t give up no matter what he believes, while Arthur— 

Arthur was brought down by immeasurably _less_. 

“I knew the throne was lost to me with my defeat in Cameliard and no amount of Morgana’s scheming was able to change that,” Maleagant sends Arthur a thin, nasty smile. “I knew I could never make Guinevere love me and certainly not by the means I chose, but I— I couldn’t stop. I _needed_ to cling to my delusional desires, because what am I without them?” 

The anger burns bright in his eyes, there is still plenty of _fight_ left in him… 

It’s just that he doesn’t seem to know what to fight for. 

“You know, there are still days when I can’t make myself get out of bed, when I need servants’ help in the most basic, humiliating tasks. I’m so used to pain I don’t remember how it feels to live without it, and yet—” The corners of Maleagant’s mouth pull downwards. “And yet you’re _right_ , thrice you be damned. What does it matter that I can barely walk if there is no path ahead?” 

“Maleagant…” 

Arthur wishes he could say that it doesn’t have to be the end, that as long as they live there is always a chance to discover a new, better path. It’s something he _believes_ , but spoken aloud, these words won’t offer more than a useless platitude, an empty hope that’s more of a curse than mercy. 

He knows _understanding_ would mean so much more, but does he truly have any right to give it? 

They’ve suffered different fates and Arthur’s was easier by far, and yet in the depths of Maleagant’s eyes he sees a familiar monster lurking. The one that still tortures his soul and poisons his mind, the one that makes life _unbearable_. 

“I wish things were different,” Arthur says. Once more, he turns his gaze to the fading sunset above the lake, unwilling to see if his words will bring pain or relief. “I wish I’d never listened to Merlin and never even _touched_ the damned sword. I wish I could’ve lived a life of a nameless knight serving some _other_ king, perhaps even you, I— My wishes these days aren’t wishes at all, they are _regrets_ , and I know it’s not the same, I know I don’t have a right to compare, but—” 

Deep in his heart, he hopes that maybe Maleagant too feels this odd _connection_ between them, a strange kinship where misery ties them together. It eases something in Arthur’s heart, it urges him to _share_ his grief, and maybe it’s terribly selfish of him, but sometimes he _needs_ to be. 

He’s so sick of lying through his teeth, he simply _can’t_ be anything but honest. 

The silence between them feels deafening. 

Arthur feels himself balancing on the verge of regret, another useless wish to _take his words back_ , he— 

“There was a time I thought you to be fate’s favorite son,” Maleagant says, “but I suppose it doesn’t like you much either. You have the throne and people’s love, and yet you are just— You’re deeply _unhappy_ , aren’t you?” 

He huffs a mirthless laugh. 

“I thought this would be more satisfying. I thought I’d find solace in your misery, but— No, perhaps I do. I _do_ because it’s easier to know I’m not _alone_ in this.”

Arthur lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

He didn’t misstep, his thoughtless confession _helped_ — perhaps not much, perhaps not in the ways that matter, but at least he didn’t add to the endless list of his regrets. 

He turns his head to meet Maleagant’s eyes and offers him a weak, unsure smile. 

No words are forthcoming, but it no longer makes him feel helpless. 

They both said _enough_ , and Arthur knows it’s not the last time they talk. 

His stay in Gore will last until the end of Yule, and hopefully this time will be enough to make a _change_ in both of them however small. Perhaps Arthur too is stronger than he gives himself credit for, perhaps he’s capable to offer _help_. 

He has plenty of misery to share, he _will_ if that’s what would make things better, but perhaps there is something else left in his heart, not _hope_ , not yet, but—

He finds himself _wanting_ for the things he can’t yet name.

He finds himself looking forward for the weeks he’d get to spend in Maleagant’s company. He isn’t sure he’ll be _allowed_ to, but he’s determined to try. 

Maleagant lifts a corner of his mouth and averts his gaze. There is something almost otherworldly in him in these moments, when his sallow skin is painted by the last rays of sunlight, when the shadows under his eyes are deep and the troubled line between his eyebrows is even deeper. 

He’s hardly had enough time to rest, but the path to the castle won’t become easier when the darkness comes, and peaceful as this evening is, it cannot last. 

“I think we should head back,” Arthur says. “If you need help, I—” 

He stumbles and doesn’t finish, but Maleagant simply nods. 

“Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes, I’m afraid I _do_ need it. I shouldn’t have come here, but I—” he hesitates for a moment. “I missed them. The lakes of Gore, I _missed_ them.”

Arthur feels a smile grazing his lips, a little shaky still, but genuine in the way it hadn’t felt for a long while. 

“They are beautiful,” he agrees. “I cannot blame you.” 

Getting to his feet, he stretches a bit, brushes small stones and dirt away from his pants, then offers his hand to Maleagant. 

“Let’s go?”

Maleagant’s lips twitch in annoyance, but he doesn’t hesitate before clasping Arthur’s forearm. His grip is tight and strong, and though a brief flash of pain crosses his face, he still stands up without much trouble. 

Arthur doesn’t let go right away. He squeezes Maleagant’s shoulder in a silent reassurance, and that may be the only thing he can offer right now, but tomorrow— 

Tomorrow they’ll see each other again. It may be hard to say where they can go from here, but surely it’ll be a place much better.

Of that Arthur has no doubt.


	2. one step at a time

The wood of the ceiling is old and stained with moisture collected over the years. 

Maleagant knows the shape of each spot, the texture of every beam, he committed them to his memory during the days he spent laying in his bed with nothing to do but _stare_. His body is broken and frail, but his _mind_ betrays him too. He’s sick of thinking, he has no urge to read, he finds no interest in all those things that once brought him genuine joy. 

Today is one of those days he can’t make himself get out of bed, can’t fight neither lethargy of his soul nor aching pain in his muscles. He’s paying a steep price for yesterday’s mistakes, the recklessness that lured him far away from the castle, the desperation that made him open up to the man he considered his rival. 

He wasn’t _ready_ for that. 

His dinner rests barely touched on the chest near his bed. He failed to make himself take more than a few bites, too nauseous, too _apathetic_ to his body’s needs. 

He knows he _needs_ to eat more.

He’s never been a big man, but after his injury he lost almost half of his weight. He’s nothing but skin pulled tight over bones, he’s sickly and gaunt, he feels lightheaded and humiliatingly weak— 

And he does nothing to change it. 

He _tries_. He promised his mother he would, and yet it’s so unbearably _hard_ to find enough strength to do that. 

Maleagant hisses through his teeth. 

He hates every moment of his existence, a mere thought of how long it may last fills him with dread and despair. His only attempt to end his life _failed_ , and now he won’t get another chance. He _won’t_ , because he vividly remembers his mother’s tear-stained face, her whispered pleas to never, _ever_ do this to her again… 

How could he refuse? If he’s even capable of love, his mother has it all, and so he promised her that he will live, he promised her that he will _try_. 

He knows that it will never be enough. 

_There is no path ahead._

Maleagant grimaces. The thought crawls into his head uninvited, the one that lurked at the edge of his mind since last night, the one that was put there like a seed of a poisonous plant, the one that— 

Gritting his teeth, Maleagant sits up on the bed and tugs away the furs. His vision blurs and his calf muscles contort in a violent spasm, but he’s long since learned to push those things aside. 

It is his mind’s dangerous wondering he cannot ignore. 

Six years of his life Maleagant spent obsessed with the man—the _boy_ —who took away everything he ever longed for, humiliated him, stomped on all of his dreams. He wasn’t cruel in that, he never intended to _hurt_ , but what did it matter?

Arthur was _nobody_ , a child with nothing but a dubious birthright and Excalibur’s favor. The barons _knew_ Maleagant, they knew him to be a talented swordsman and a clever politician, a man fit to rule, so how could they choose Arthur?

They knew him. 

Maybe _that’s_ why— 

Maleagant silences the thought. 

Gods, but did he even _want_ the thrice-damned throne? 

When Uther died and Britain was left kingless, when the news of the fated tournament reached even the most remote corners of the isles, _everyone_ of the noble blood chose to try their hand at winning the ultimate prize. 

Maleagant wasn’t an exception. He knew he could best his opponents with ease, he knew his strengths, his weaknesses and how to work around them. He didn’t simply count on luck, he trained all of his life to be the best, and so he didn’t doubt that _he_ would be the winner. 

He was. And yet Excalibur _refused_ to recognize it. 

The sword didn’t move a hair no matter how hard he pulled. It felt like it was easier to move the _stone itself_ than the enchanted piece of steel, and yet— 

Yet, the boy who had no right to even _participate_ in the tournament, took it out with no seeming effort. 

The moment Merlin announced the truth of Athur’s conception, Maleagant knew that the whole tournament was nothing but a sham. It was never meant to determine the one worthy of becoming the new High-King, it was just an excuse to gather the barons so they could meet Uther’s _true heir._

It was the _blood_ that granted Arthur the crown, not the purity of his soul. 

Not for a moment Maleagant doubted that. Not for a moment he thought that this child could truly become the High-King Britain needed, and so he promised himself that he would show the barons how dangerously foolish they were to choose Arthur. 

For years Maleagant collected rumors about the young king’s missteps and successes, for years he accumulated resources and power with the only intention in mind: to lure the boy out of his stronghold, to best him in a fair fight, to _humiliate_ him the way Maleagant was humiliated _by_ him. 

Sometimes Maleagant caught himself wondering if maybe his brief infatuation with Guinevere grew into a full-blown obsession because Arthur dared to take her too. 

Arthur took _everything_ Maleagant had ever wanted, the throne and the woman, respect and love and acceptance. He became the symbol of Maleagant’s failures, the very center of his bleak and miserable world… 

Until the day when Maleagant was broken, and everything ceased to matter. 

He’s still alive. He’s still _breathing_ , his spirit lingers in the cage of his flesh, but a part of him still bled out and died from the wound Lancelot gave him. A part that made him dream of the impossible, a part that made him love and hate and _long_. 

Before, he would’ve hated Arthur for the part he played in his demise, for pushing him on the road that led him to destruction, but hatred takes _strength_ he no longer possesses.

Hatred should be spared for the one truly deserving. _Himself_. 

Maleagant feels so little these days. Odd sparks of frustration and anger and dull ever-present self-loathing, a few streaks of faded colors on the endless grey of apathy. 

He resigned to the thought that this won’t change, he accepted that every day of his life will be painful and empty and worthless. He was prepared to simply _wait_ for the Gods’ final—their _only_ —mercy, but then— 

Then, Arthur Pendragon came back into his life, and just like years before, Maleagant can’t get him out of his head. 

Maleagant rubs his temples, but of course it does nothing to ward off the intrusive, unwelcome thoughts. 

He exhales through his nose. Gripping the bed frame, he places his feet on the floor and pushes himself up. Familiar pain shoots up his spine, his muscles tremble and spasm, but at least he doesn’t _fall_. 

His skin feels sticky from the dried sweat, its sour smell fills up his nostrils, and he is _disgusted_ with himself so much more than he’s been in a while. He cannot stop wondering— 

What did Arthur see when he looked at him?

A pathetic, worthless creature, a mere shadow of his former self incapable of finding enough strength to fight? Maleagant knew people who suffered injuries far worse, he knew those who didn’t let it _consume_ them, while he— 

He did. 

Gritting his teeth, Maleagant makes a few shaky steps towards the table where the servants left a basin of hot water and a clean nightshirt. He shouldn’t have refused their help when they offered, he should’ve swallowed his pride, he’s done that enough to finally learn— 

But cleaning himself is still something he _can_ do. 

He _will_ do it if only to have a clearer mind and an easier sleep. 

Gods, but why did his and Arthur’s paths have to cross once again? 

He _feared_ it. He feared the memories their meeting would inevitably bring, he feared mockery and humiliation, he feared— 

A lot of things that didn’t happen. There was no gloating, no derision in his once-enemy’s eyes, and pity… pity he _deserves_. He doesn’t know if the same can be said about understanding, but he’s grateful for it all the same. 

It was a strange thing to realize that he doesn’t truly know Arthur. 

He thought him to be reckless and stubborn, he thought him to be careless of the hurts he inflicted on others, he thought him to be blind in his righteousness, and maybe there _is_ some truth in his assessment, but not enough to matter. 

At his very core, Arthur is _kind_. He’s compassionate, he doesn’t seem to hold grudges, he keeps no hatred in his heart. He’s everything Maleagant _isn’t_ , but— 

Maleagant _needs_ him. 

He doesn’t know why. Perhaps he’s simply starved for company, perhaps he’s brought like a moth to a flame by Arthur’s own misery, perhaps he seeks kinship or answers or— 

It doesn’t matter. 

No reason would make him reconsider, no reason would stop him from craving attention from the very same man he once loathed, no reason would tame the terrible passions that always push him to the edge. 

In the end, he failed to learn his lesson. 

Maleagant’s fingers are shaking as he tugs off his thin nightshirt, damp from the sweat and stained ugly yellow. He tosses it aside, wrinkling his nose in disgust, and doesn’t look down lest the feeling intensifies tenfold. 

Soaking the clean cloth in lukewarm water, he meticulously washes off the dried sweat from his chest, his armpits, and groin. He tries not to linger, avoiding dwelling too much on his too-sharp bones and raised tissue of scars. He’d never been ashamed of them, they used to mark his victories and lessons learned, but now— 

Now, all of them remind him of the one that _broke_ him. 

Maleagant winces from the jolt of pain that pierces his right thigh the moment he shifts his weight. He puts down the cloth and breathes through his nose, waiting for the cramp to pass. They feel much worse than usual today, his body is clearly punishing him for the arrogance that made him believe he’s ready for a longer walk, but he _refuses_ to regret it. 

If only because it led him to Arthur. 

Maleagant lets out a hollow laugh. 

Why can’t he stop _obsessing_ over a person who barely _thinks_ about him in turn?

Maleagant isn’t delusional—not _enough—_ to believe he’s ever mattered to Arthur. His role in the young king’s life was insignificant and small, the wounds he inflicted touched flesh but not spirit. Perhaps that’s why Arthur never learned to hate him, perhaps that’s why he was able to offer him sympathy and understanding… 

But that is also why his interest will be fleeting. 

It doesn’t matter how much Maleagant needs him, how much he wants to know what in this man attracts him so irrationally and fiercely, he can’t simply _take_ what isn’t offered, and asking is— 

A sharp knock at the door makes him startle. That can’t be the servants, they should’ve been done for today, and who would _dare_ to disturb him this late? 

“Who is that?” he asks, raising his voice just enough to be heard. 

He has a suspicion, a foolish _hope_ , but surely that can’t be— 

“It’s Arthur,” comes the answer he expected but _didn’t_ at the very same time. “I came to— I was hoping to talk. May I come in?” 

Maleagant curses under his breath. He’s not _ready_ to see anyone, least of all Arthur. He looked pathetic yesterday, and that was one of his better days, so what could be said about him now when he’s naked and unkempt and barely can stand straight? Of course, Arthur won’t voice his disgust, but he will _feel_ it, and yet— 

Yet, Maleagant can’t imagine turning him away. He may have underestimated Arthur’s interest or his pity, but hardly by much. Rejected now, he surely won’t reach out to him again, and that would be the end of the dream that already feels hopeless. 

Maleagant exhales. 

Perhaps it’s a good thing that his misery finally tamed his pride. 

“Give me a moment!” he calls out through the door. 

He quickly tosses on a clean nightshirt and runs his fingers through his matted hair, hoping to appear at least halfway decent. It’s highly improper to greet the High-King barely dressed, but what did Arthur expect when he decided to visit him this late? 

Maleagant turns towards the door. His movements are jerky and awkward, and at the last moment his elbow brushes the ladle on the table, knocking it to the floor. It lands with a loud clatter, almost deafening in the silence of the room, and Maleagant— 

All of a sudden, Maleagant feels _angry_. 

He’s angry at himself, his helplessness and inability to do anything right, he’s angry at Arthur who chose the worst possible moment to visit, he’s angry at fate that once again decided to taunt him with something he wants but _can’t have._

Gods, _why_ would he wish to feel something again? 

“Come in,” he barks, “the door is unlocked.” 

He grips the table so tightly his knuckles turn white. His muscles are trembling and his vision blurs, he can almost hear the rush of blood in his head, but at least he is _standing_. 

He closes his eyes for a moment. The door creaks and the footsteps follow, they sound soft and almost hesitant as if Arthur doubts he’s truly welcome…

“You have the worst timing,” Maleagant says, willing himself to meet Arthur’s gaze. “But since you’re here, do me a favor and fetch the ladle.” 

Arthur just blinks at him dumbly. Even in the dim light of the fireplace, it’s hard to miss the feverish gleam in his eyes and the redness of his cheeks. It looks like he’s been drinking, so it shouldn’t be terribly surprising that his thinking capabilities are compromised. More than usual, that is. 

Maleagant curves his mouth into a grimace of disdain.

“The ladle,” he repeats. “Pick up the ladle.” 

“The—” Arthur’s eyes flicker to the floor. “Oh. Of course.” 

He takes a few steps forward and leans down to take the ladle, then places it on the table next to the basin of water. He doesn’t step back. This close, Maleagant can distinctly feel his smell—leather and smoke, and spiced wine—and though it’s far from unpleasant, it’s _discomforting_ in a way he can’t quite place.

“Your guard,” Arthur says, looking a little baffled. “He’s quite an interesting person.” 

Maleagant’s lips twitch.

It must be Drest who’s keeping watch tonight, a man whose loyalty is only matched by his complete disregard for authority. It seems that even the High-King failed to inspire his reverence, and while Arthur is hardly offended by that, he’s certainly _confused_. 

Maleagant would’ve enjoyed seeing their exchange. 

“What did you want to talk about?” he asks instead of voicing any of these thoughts. 

Straight to the point. He could’ve made small talk, he could’ve pretended this is something that they _do_. He _wishes_ it was, but— 

There is a chance that Arthur has an actual reason to be here, perhaps an issue he failed to settle with King Bagdemagus, and if that’s true, Maleagant needs to _know_. 

He can’t bear yet another disappointment. 

Arthur shrugs and averts his eyes. His gaze slides across the room, undoubtedly noticing the dirty nightshirt on the floor and the pitiful remnants of dinner, but nothing changes in his expression. He seems a little lost and mildly curious, and far more sober than Maleagant initially presumed. 

“I haven’t planned ahead,” Arthur admits. “The other day we— I thought you could use some company. Even _mine_ .” He tries a weak smile, then shakes his head. “ _I_ could use some company. To be honest, I’ve been— I was thinking—” 

He trails off. 

Maleagant sighs. 

“Pour yourself some wine,” he says. “Pour _me_ some, and then we’ll talk. I won’t turn you away if you truly desire my company above that of Gore’s nobles.” 

“I truly do,” Arthur says. He finally raises his head to meet Maleagant’s gaze, and his eyes seem warm and utterly sincere. “What they expect of me, I’m not too fond of giving. They want _the king_ , and you— You’ve always seen me as a foolish boy.” 

There is no self-deprecation in Arthur’s voice, in the smile that curves his lips, but Maleagant can’t shake the feeling that it _does_ curl tightly in his soul. 

He knows that Arthur has his own regrets, he knows he carries an enormous burden. There was a time he seemed so fortunate, so carefree, but now he _isn’t_. 

Perhaps he’s never been. 

At Arthur’s age, Maleagant was busy sharpening his wit and honing his skills with a blade, his _father_ was responsible for the kingdom’s well-being. Even now he has a dubious luxury to wallow in self-pity and think of no one but himself, while Arthur— 

Arthur can’t forget his duty. He is the High-King first and foremost, and Maleagant did use to think him childish, but when did Arthur have a chance to _be_ a child? 

“You _are_ a foolish boy,” Maleagant says. “And you refuse to listen. _Pour us some wine.”_

Arthur’s smile softens. 

“Alright,” he says. 

Maleagant doesn’t watch him as he busies himself with the wine. Pushing through pain, he hobbles towards the bed and gently settles himself down atop the covers. If Arthur claims he doesn’t want to be treated like a king, Maleagant certainly shouldn’t have any qualms about lying down. 

He leans into the pillows and stretches his legs, wincing from the small cramps in his calves that aren’t particularly agonizing but certainly irritating. They serve all too well to remind him of his weakness. 

He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. 

He listens to the rustling of fabric and the soft sound of footsteps, feels the dip of the mattress as Arthur sits at the very edge of the bed. 

“Do you…” he sounds hesitant. “Are you allowed to drink?” 

Maleagant opens his eyes to level him with a glare. It may be true that he’s sick—he will be for the rest of his life—but there is no reason to treat him like an old decrepit man. 

“Why would I have wine in my chambers if I wasn’t allowed to drink?” he asks sharply, reaching out to take one of the goblets from Arthur’s hands. “It won’t make it _worse_.”

Nothing will. Maleagant has already hit rock bottom. 

“If you say so,” Arthur murmurs. Lowering his eyes, he twists his own goblet in his fingers.“How are you feeling?” 

Maleagant contemplates not answering. He contemplates saying nothing but impersonal “fine” that would read as “none of your business”. All of his life he’s been building a shell around himself but— 

Perhaps, it was cracked too. 

Perhaps he _needs_ to open up to someone. 

“I have been better,” he admits. 

He raises a goblet to his mouth and takes a small sip, letting himself enjoy a tart taste of wine on his tongue. He _is_ allowed to drink, but he should be careful not to indulge himself too much. It wouldn’t take more than a goblet or two for his control to start slipping, and that’s something he _can’t_ afford in Arthur’s company. 

At least until he knows where they stand. 

“You already know that I was foolish enough to overestimate my strength the other day,” he adds. “My body knows too well how to remind me of its limits.” 

Arthur nods.

“Is there something I can do to help?” he asks. 

Maleagant huffs a laugh. 

“Unless you want to give me a leg rub, I’d say no.”

In truth, he would’ve liked it more than he’s ready to admit. It would’ve helped with pain, and then, a part of him is starved for human contact. An odd thought, considering he’s never been too fond of strangers’ touches, but—

Arthur is hardly a stranger. 

Gods, it’s almost been _ten years_ since they first met. 

Maleagant can barely remember the boy Arthur was back then, fresh-faced and brash and full of light. How did he manage to forget him? Why did he choose to keep instead an image of a wrathful and self-righteous king?

“How old are you?” Maleagant asks. 

Arthur blinks. 

Maleagant cocks his head, examining his features. He still looks young, his skin is smooth and void of lines, but there is certain tightness in the corners of his eyes, his gaze looks dull and weary and the corners of his mouth pull downwards.

It’s odd to think he used to have such brilliant and sunny smiles.

“Twenty four,” Arthur says. “Well, I will be. In about four months.” 

Maleagant stills, his goblet half-raised to his mouth. 

Twenty four. Twenty _three_ , to be exact. A grown man by any measure, but— 

It means that he was fifteen when he pulled the sword out of the stone. Eighteen when he married Guinevere. Not even twenty when he got his heart broken, his trust betrayed, his whole world crumbled to pieces. 

Intellectually, Maleagant has always known that Arthur was much younger than him. 

Perhaps not by ten years, but still significantly so, and yet he was so caught in seeing them as equals, himself no lower than the newly minted king, he chose to spend six years of his life competing with a _child_.

He isn’t sure what to feel about this realization. He isn’t sure if it changes anything, but— 

Of course it does. Their whole relationship is changing now, redefining itself, shaping into something new. Even if this _new_ is unlikely to last. 

“You seem surprised,” Arthur says.

He still doesn’t drink, too busy studying the contents of his goblet. His cheeks look redder than before, though that may be a trick of the light. 

“I am,” Maleagant admits. “You looked— older.” 

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. 

“Sadly, being able to grow a beard at fifteen didn’t make me any more mature.” 

No, of course it didn’t. 

“It must’ve been hard,” Maleagant says, “to carry a burden of power at such a young age.” 

“I—”

Arthur swallows. He finally raises his head to meet Maleagant’s eyes, and something in his expression looks almost _hopeful_. 

“It _was_ hard,” he says. “Gods, I barely knew how to be a good squire. I’ve never been diligent or hard-working, I used to skip my father’s lessons all the time. Becoming a knight was the height of my ambition, and then suddenly I had the fate of Britain on my shoulders. I— made a lot of mistakes. I’ll probably make even more.”

The price for those mistakes is high. 

The weight of guilt is unmistakable in Arthur’s eyes, and Maleagant can’t say it is misplaced. The High-King _is_ responsible for lands’ well-being, for every life lost to war, for poverty, famine, and desolation. He cannot claim his lack of education or experience to be an excuse, and it’s commendable that Arthur recognizes it. He seems to be a rare sort of person who’s capable of admitting his shortcomings and genuinely striving to do better, and then— 

Then, truth be told, he already did quite well. 

Perhaps one day Maleagant will tell him this, but he’s not ready yet to praise the man he fought so hard to knock off his pedestal. 

“Errare humanum est,” he murmurs. Catching Arthur’s confused gaze, he offers him a small, slightly mocking smile. “To err is human, as the Romans say. I see you’re still skipping your Latin lessons.”

Arthur huffs an embarrassed laugh, but thankfully he doesn’t seem offended. Of course, Maleagant wasn’t _trying_ to hurt him, but he’s been told not once that his attempts at teasing too often felt humiliating. 

If he ever truly excelled in anything, it was alienating people. 

“Not quite,” Arthur says, his thumb absentmindedly brushing across the intricate carving on the goblet. “I don’t actually have them. Merlin thought it was more important to make me a good warrior, a _warlord_ , when the Saxons remained one of our biggest threats. I _do_ know my education is lacking. In languages and politics and everything that’s needed in times of peace. Thing is, I don’t even know where to start closing these gaps in my knowledge. I—” 

He shakes his head and doesn’t finish. 

The corners of his mouth pull downwards and a frown settles between his eyebrows, the glimpses of mirth in him are brief and fleeting, and it is clear that he wasn’t simply feeling down the other day. 

His misery runs so much deeper.

“Half of the secret of being a good ruler,” Maleagant says, “is to know how to delegate. You don’t have to be perfect in everything. You don’t have to _know_ everything, you just need to rely on those people you trust, and then—” 

A shadow passes over Arthur’s face and Maleagant stops mid-sentence. 

_Of course._

He should’ve known better than to bring up a topic of trust. He doesn’t think Arthur truly expects to be deceived by his advisors or stabbed in the back by those he fights with, but— 

Is it surprising that his faith in people’s loyalty has shattered?

“You’re right,” Arthur sighs. “I’d say that good advisors aren’t that easy to come by, but I suppose I should at least try to find them. And maybe learn a little bit of Latin in the meantime. See if that makes me any smarter.”

He offers Maleagant a quick, good-natured smile, and though it doesn’t chase away the sadness in his eyes, it’s— _something_. Something better. 

“Not much to work with,” Maleagant says dryly. “But I commend your effort.” 

Arthur’s smile doesn’t waver. 

“You know, you’re surprisingly easy to talk to,” he says. “Not something I expected, but I’m glad to be proven wrong. There are so many things I regret, the things I cannot change, but you and I, we… I think we made a wrong turn a long time ago, but it is not too late to start anew.” 

Maleagant averts his eyes, unable to stand the intensity he finds in Arthur’s. 

He’s too honest, too sincere as if it doesn’t hurt to bare his heart, but surely it does. It _does_ , and Maleagant can’t offer him the same. He suffered too much pain and now he fears it, he’s just a coward who once thought himself so brave, but— 

At least he can—he _will_ —accept what was given to him. 

“It’s not,” he says. “Although, I must be truly starved for company considering the thought of sharing _yours_ no longer seems insane.” 

He twists his lips into a smile to indicate he’s mostly joking. He cannot change himself, not even for the sake of keeping Arthur close, but maybe he won’t _have_ to. 

“Well, I can’t exactly promise you riveting conversations,” Arthur says, “but I _will_ try to make our time together worth your while. I have been told I’m pretty good with my hands. In case you still want a leg rub.” 

He raises his eyebrows in question, his eyes are full of mirth. He cannot truly _mean_ it, but for some reason Maleagant doesn’t doubt that he does. 

His gaze flickers to Arthur’s hands, strong and long-fingered and calloused from bladework. He imagines them gentle. He imagines their touch careful but sure, and so far from impersonal. 

Maleagant can’t agree to this. 

He _can’t_ because then he’d have to confront the thought he’s not ready to examine, the thought he’s been pushing to the back of his mind this whole evening but _still_ failed to silence completely. 

“I’m serious,” Arthur says as if sensing Maleagant’s hesitation. “It may not be exactly proper, but if it would help…” 

It _would_ help with pain, with cramps and lingering soreness, but what a _mess_ it would make in Maleagant’s heart. What a mess it _already_ made. 

Maleagant exhales. He raises his goblet to his lips to finish off the wine in one big gulp, and though it does make his head spin, it gives him no courage. 

“Alright,” he says. “Alright, let’s see if your skills are as good as you claim. You must know that I won’t be a lenient judge.” 

Arthur just laughs at that, short and full-bellied. He leaves his goblet on the bedside chest, and then— Then, with a startling, shameless familiarity, he places his hand on Maleagant’s bare calf, his touch assured and branding and scorchingly _hot_. 

Maleagant shivers. 

The thought that he tried to silence breaks free, escaping the cage that was never meant to hold it.

He is _attracted_ to Arthur.

A simple truth, a revelation that brings no surprise. 

It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s superficial and fleeting, it will not hold, it _never_ does— 

Except when it turns into obsession and Arthur is _already_ that. 

Maleagant curves his lips into a bitter smile and closes his eyes. Try as he might, he can’t fight his feelings, he is too tired for that, and so—

He lets it be. 


	3. intertwining

The feast in celebration of a fruitful hunt is lavish, the entertainments are plentiful and engaging, but for some reason, Arthur can’t stop his mind from wandering. He barely listens to the jokes he doesn’t find particularly funny or the praises too heavily seasoned with flattery. Instead, he thinks about the time he spent in Gore, so short and yet so incredibly fulfilling. 

It’s been two weeks since he came to these lands, a few days less since he reached out to mend the rift between himself and Maleagant of Gore, and the change it brought to his life is _immeasurable_. 

Arthur struggles to remember the last time he felt this alive. 

When he first offered to share Maleagant’s company, he didn’t expect much. Perhaps a few moments of kinship, priceless but ultimately fleeting, but now— 

Now, he thinks, they may have a beginning of a true friendship. 

Of course, Maleagant would never call it such. During the days they’ve spent together, Arthur learned that being _nice_ is simply not an option for this impossible and endlessly frustrating man. 

He’s _complicated_ beyond all measures. 

When he’s feeling down, he’s bitter and hateful. His remarks are often poisonous and hurtful, and while Arthur tries not to take them too close to his heart, it doesn’t always work. Even during Maleagant’s better days, he’s not an entirely pleasant person to be around. His sense of humor is mean, his teasing is almost impossible to read as good-natured, but— 

He’s also incredibly clever and witty, he is a brilliant storyteller, capable of making even the most boring things sound genuinely entertaining. He’s much more empathetic than he probably gives himself credit for, he’s passionate and stubborn and so impossibly _full of life_. 

He’s complicated. 

And Arthur _likes_ him exactly this way. 

With him, he finds himself smiling more often, with him, he doesn’t feel any need to pretend to be stronger or wiser than he is, with him, he feels it’s perfectly alright to be _himself_. He just wishes— 

He wished he could give Maleagant something in turn. 

His pain isn’t simply in his head. His own body betrays him, it _tortures_ him every single day, and Arthur has no hope to battle that. He’s not a healer nor he possesses any magic, so what could he possibly offer to help? A shoulder to lean on? A foot rub that a trained servant would probably perform so much better? 

Arthur feels the corners of his mouth turn downwards, his mood soured, though it was hardly pleasant in the first place. He feels exhausted after the hunt and fed up with the nobles’ company. He would much rather spend this evening with Maleagant, but he cannot afford to neglect his duties—useless as these ones seem—until the negotiations are officially over. He— 

“Something is troubling you, Your Majesty?”

Arthur blinks. 

It seems he _was_ rather neglectful already, enough that one of his hosts noticed his lack of attention. Embarrassed, he turns his head to meet the eyes of the woman who spoke to him, the lady of this castle. Queen Maeve of Gore. Maleagant’s mother. 

She doesn’t seem displeased by his rudeness. Her features are calm, her whole demeanor is regal in a way that doesn’t feel oppressive, she— 

In truth, she very much reminds Arthur of her son. 

They don’t look much alike at first glance. Her skin is paler, her nose is dusted with freckles and her hair is light ginger, and yet she has the same delicate sharpness to her face, the same clear brightness to her eyes, the same capricious curve to her lips. 

From his father Maleagant got nothing but his darker coloring, and if some rumors were to be believed, his troubled personality as well, but— 

Arthur can’t help but think that Maleagant has more in common with his mother. 

“I— The usual things,” he finally says. 

His silence lasted a moment too long, but he doesn’t think that Queen Maeve will scorn him for that. There is something remarkably patient, almost _motherly_ in the way that she treats him, and perhaps some would consider it inappropriate or insulting—he _is_ the High-King after all—but Arthur finds it comforting. 

He was way too young when he took the throne, too inexperienced to shoulder the burden this heavy, and on his path he found no one he could’ve leaned on. While Merlin took the role of his mentor, he abandoned it halfway through. He barely taught Arthur how to walk with a crutch but expected him to run on his own. 

Queen Maeve might see him as a child, but at least she doesn’t expect him to be _perfect_. 

Neither does her son. 

“Please, do excuse my rudeness,” Arthur adds after a heartbeat of silence. “I have to confess, I’m not quite in the mood for celebrations.”

“I cannot blame you.” Queen Maeve says, her lips curling into an amused and only slightly mocking smile. “I have the deepest respect for my lord husband, but I won’t deny that he can be somewhat… _overbearing_.”

“King Bagdemagus is perfectly courteous,” Arthur says. “Though I admit I’d rather—” 

“See my son?” Queen Maeve raises her eyebrows in a too-familiar gesture. “I’ve heard the two of you spend quite a lot of time together” 

Arthur averts his eyes, his cheeks feel warm as if he’s been caught doing something forbidden or shameful. He knows that his relationship with Maleagant is complicated and unlikely, he knows that Queen Maeve has plenty of reasons to be suspicious of his intentions, but— 

Arthur _isn’t_ ashamed of his choices. 

He doesn’t regret them either. 

“We do,” he says. “And you’re right, I’d rather see Sir Maleagant tonight if he’s amenable to that. I realize that my presence in his life might be unwelcome, considering our history...” 

“It’s _not_.” 

Queen Maeve lays her palm atop of his hand. Her touch is unassuming and light, comforting and calming… so startlingly _different_ from Maleagant’s. _His_ touches are heavy and assured, almost possessive. They stir unrest in Arthur’s soul, the one he welcomes for it makes him feel _alive_ , but— 

He’s certainly too preoccupied with the thoughts of the man he once called his rival. 

“Maleagant doesn’t let people close,” Queen Maeve says. 

She keeps her voice low, wishing their conversation to remain private, although they hardly risk being overheard. King Bagdemagus left not long ago and the seats around them are empty, the hall is filled with laughter and singing, people don’t _care_ about boring talks when their bellies are full with wine and rich food. 

Right now, Arthur is grateful for that. 

“He never did,” Queen Maeve continues. “I know he always prided himself in needing no friends, but that’s simply not true. He too gets lonely. He too requires support, now more than ever. It’s true that I wouldn’t have thought that you of all people would be able to offer him that, but things change, and...” 

She pauses for a moment, contemplative. 

“You are a good person. I knew this even before I met you. I knew this because even when Maleagant was cursing your existence, he _respected_ you. He trusted your honor. This isn’t something that comes to him lightly.” 

Arthur swallows. These words aren’t surprising, not truly, but—

They still mean a lot. 

“I—” He doesn’t know what to say. 

“I’m sure I’m revealing too much.” Queen Maeve says. “My son won’t be happy about it, so please let my words be our secret.” 

She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling, amusement clear in her gaze, and Arthur laughs despite himself. Yes, Maleagant most certainly won’t appreciate being outed like that, he’d hate to be even _suspected_ of having ever thought anything remotely good about his once-rival. Even now he prefers to pretend he tolerates Arthur at best, but even if that’s true, it’s still much more than he offers others. 

“Of course,” he says. “And I assure you, I feel nothing but respect and genuine sympathy for your son. We had our differences in the past, but I’m hopeful we can leave them behind. I… one day, I’d like to call Sir Maleagant my friend.” 

_One day_. How soon will it come? How much time do they have to strengthen their bond? In a fortnight, Arthur will be back in Camelot, and deep down he fears that it would put an end to their still undefined relationship. He doesn’t _want_ that. He knows he’ll do everything in his power to keep Maleagant in his life, because… 

Because with him he doesn’t fear betrayal, and he _needs_ that. 

Years ago, Arthur, too, put his trust in Maleagant’s honor. Enough to kneel before him, wounded and weak, enough to give him a weapon to strike him down, enough to believe that his ambitions wouldn’t be stronger than his sense of what’s right. 

They _weren’t_. 

And Arthur recognizes that, in a way, trusting an enemy is easier than trusting a friend, but it’s still… something. A foundation. A start. 

“I’m sure this day will come,” Queen Maeve says. She casts a quick glance at the doors, noticing her husband’s return, then turns her attention back to Arthur. “If you want to leave early, then _go_. I’ll find the right excuse for my husband, and the guests… I’m sure the wine keeps them entertained. They will fare well without you.”

Maleagant won’t. 

He may not always enjoy having company, but being alone for him is _worse_. 

When needed, Arthur learned to be quiet with him. Simply _there_. Sometimes he’d curl in a chair near the fireplace and read one of Maleagant’s books, forgetting for a moment that he’s never been an avid reader. Sometimes he’d help him with easy, day-to-day tasks, briefly filling the role of a servant. He doesn’t find it degrading, and he suspects that for some reason Maleagant finds it… easier. Less humiliating. 

It’s a good enough reason to do that. 

“ _Thank you_ ,” he says. “I— I really should be going then. Unless—”

“ _Go_.” Queen Maeve shakes her head. “And, please, send Maleagant my love.” 

“I will.” 

Arthur stands up, wincing when the heavy chair scrapes the stone floor, then murmurs a quick goodbye to the queen and heads towards the exit. He passes King Bagdemagus on his way out, but keeps silent, trusting Queen Maeve to resolve all possible issues. 

He has other places to be. 

Arthur wills himself not to hurry. It won’t take long to reach Maleagant’s chambers, considering that they are located on the same level as the Grand Hall. Once, they likely belonged to his parents, but it made sense to make certain changes to accommodate Maleagant’s condition. While he’s been getting better, it’s still unknown how much further he can possibly recover. 

The court physician doesn’t appear to be too optimistic. Much as it pains Arthur, he knows there is a good reason for that. Maleagant is severely underweight, his muscles are atrophied and his body doesn’t always listen to his commands… but worst of all, his very soul is frayed. 

He barely eats and avoids straining himself beyond bare necessity—because it hurts, because it simply doesn’t seem to be _worth_ it. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t hope to return to his old self, so what’s the point in trying? 

Gods, Arthur wishes it wasn’t this easy to understand. 

He sighs. Perhaps he’s not the best person to offer help in a situation like this, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to give up, and— 

“Sire.” The voice makes him startle. 

Too caught in his thoughts, Arthur didn’t notice that he already reached the doors leading to Maleagant’s chambers. The guard who greets him is a familiar face—Drest, if his memory serves him right. The man hasn’t become any less rude during the past few weeks, but at least Arthur learned not to take it personally. 

“Sir Maleagant has been waiting for you,” Drest says. 

His expression is completely unreadable, but something in his discomfitingly pale eyes tells Arthur that he is amused. He _did_ just betray his master’s eagerness for company, and they both know that Maleagant would absolutely _hate_ it. 

Arthur’s lips twitch in a nervous attempt of a smile. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. 

Knowing he won’t be announced, he knocks on the door and waits for a reply. 

“You can come in.”

Maleagant no longer asks if it is him, and Arthur wonders whether it’s because he now expects his visits or there is simply no one _else_ he sees. 

He thinks both reasons might be true. 

He swallows. Pushing down the nervous, fluttering feeling in his stomach, Arthur opens the door and enters the chambers. They are well-lit today, he notes, the light streams freely through the open blinds and the air inside is fresh and crisp. Maleagant is sitting on a chair next to the fireplace, facing the doors. It seems he _has_ been waiting for him, and— 

Arthur blinks. 

“Well?” Maleagant raises his eyebrows. “Good evening to you too.” 

Arthur can’t help but stare at him. There is something _different_ in the way he looks today, something that can’t quite be put into words. He obviously took time to make himself presentable. He’s fully dressed, his hair is freshly washed and brushed. He’s clean-shaven once more, and though it doesn’t make him appear any younger—the lack of beard only accentuates the sharpness of his features—it _suits_ him. 

It reminds Arthur of the times that cannot be brought back, but for some reason, it doesn’t make him feel bitter. 

“I— Evening,” he mumbles. “You look good.” 

Maleagant huffs a laugh. 

“I look half-dead,” he says, his voice sharp and mocking. “But only _half_ , which, I agree, is somewhat of an improvement.” 

Arthur chuckles, though he’s not sure that’s how he _should_ react. It’s all too easy to offend Maleagant, either by laughing at his self-deprecating jokes or refusing to, depending on his mood. Navigating a relationship with him is tricky, but that doesn’t scare Arthur. 

Doing something truly _wrong_ does. 

“Help me up,” Maleagant says. “We’ll take a walk.” 

Arthur can’t help but make a low whine of protest. Today’s hunt started before dawn, and he’s already sleepy and tired. He would’ve preferred to spend this evening curled in a chair, listening to Maleagant reading aloud one of his books. He _does_ possess unique talent to make even the most boring of them sound engaging. 

“Do we have to?” he asks, although he already knows the answer. 

He offers his hand to Maleagant, helping him to his feet. 

They pause for a moment, too close to each other, and Arthur acutely feels the heat radiating from Maleagant’s body, his smell—bitter and herbal, just slightly tinged with the sweetness of honey. 

He takes a step back. 

“Do you feel tired?” Maleagant’s eyebrows jerk up and his eyes look discomfitingly intense. “Maybe your legs ache?” 

In fact, they do. Arthur’s thighs _burn_ from spending this whole day on horseback, but he’s well aware that this is something he shouldn’t mention aloud. Were their circumstances different, he certainly _would’ve_ complained, perhaps he would’ve even asked for a foot rub, claiming it’s only fair, but— 

The truth is, it’s _not_. It’s not fair that Arthur’s aches are fleeting, that they can be healed with nothing but bed rest and a hot bath, while Malegant’s won’t _ever_ go away. 

Arthur sighs. 

“Have it your way,” he murmurs. “After all, you always do.” 

Maleagant purses his lips. Something flickers in the depths of his eyes, a troubling, complicated emotion Arthur can’t recognize, and it _worries_ him more than he’d like to admit. He _is_ afraid to do something wrong, to say something he wouldn’t be able to take back, to ruin this fragile balance between them. 

Maleagant has given them a chance, but he can _take it back,_ and— 

It won’t be a betrayal, it won’t break Arthur’s trust, but it _will_ hurt him greatly. 

“Yes,” Maleagant says slowly. “With you, I always do. Maybe I should’ve asked for the throne _nicely_.”

Arthur lets out a laugh, not even trying to hide how relieved he feels. 

“If you could’ve managed to be _nice_ ,” he says, “it very well might’ve worked. Although, to be honest, I’m still not sure why you would _want_ to be the High-King. It’s not a burden easy to carry.” 

Maleagant doesn’t answer right away. Taking his cane, he heads towards the exit, expecting Arthur to follow. His steps are slow and careful, and yet they seem a little steadier today. 

“Quite obviously, it’s not the _burden_ I wanted,” Maleagant says as they reach the doors. “I don’t envy yours. Still, I thought myself ready to be responsible for the fate of our kingdom, it’s what I’ve been _trained_ for, and… In the end, I suppose it was a matter of pride, of what’s _fair_. I—” 

He presses his lips into a thin line. 

“We’ll finish this talk later,” he says. 

Arthur nods. It _is_ a complicated matter, and then, he suspects Maleagant doesn’t want to be overheard by anyone, be that his guard or one of his father’s guests they might encounter in the castle halls. 

They keep their silence as they exit the chambers and head towards the courtyard, passing the Great Hall on their way. The feast is still ongoing, and the expression that flashes over Maleagant’s face is a mix of disgust and weariness and envy. He doesn’t _want_ to be there, but he loathes the fact that he _can’t_. 

Arthur pretends he doesn’t notice anything. 

It doesn’t take them long to reach the courtyard. The steps are the hardest task, but Maleagant manages it well. He has to grip Arthur’s arm for support, and his breaths grow noticeably quicker, but that’s the only thing that betrays his weakness. Arthur can’t help but feel proud of him. 

“I was wondering…” he says as they enter the gardens within the castle walls, not particularly lush but secluded enough to offer them privacy. “Do you think you’d be happy if you had everything you wanted? The throne and… and Guinevere as well?” 

Was _Arthur_ happy? 

There was a time he believed that he was. Blinded by love, so carefree and foolish, he basked in the warmth of his first genuine feeling, but even then… Even then, sometimes he felt that something was _missing_.

That magical, inexplicable connection he felt towards Guinevere has never truly returned. He left it in Cameliard, in that half-delirious haze brought by poppy milk and blood loss. 

The woman he fell in love with was gentle and witty and kind, bold, full of life and so _enchanting._ The woman he called his wife was often withdrawn and melancholy, still kind, but somewhat _shallow_. Arthur didn’t quite know what to _do_ in her company, and the intimacy between them was tainted too. 

He was ashamed of it, he didn’t want to admit it, but it didn’t make it any less true. 

Maleagant exhales. He doesn’t look at Arthur, his gaze is far away and his expression is troubled. 

“No, I don’t think I would,” he says. 

His grip on Arthur’s arm tightens. He’s yet to let him go, and Arthur catches himself thinking that they must look quite odd like this, almost like a courting couple. A foolish thought, an inappropriate parallel. 

He shakes his head. 

“I wanted the throne,” Maleagant continues. “I wanted it because it would’ve brought me glory, I wanted it because it would’ve been _fair_. I was furious, unsatisfied, _unhappy_ to be denied the thing I thought was rightfully mine, but...” He frowns. “I’m sure you’ve learned by now how the lack of misery doesn’t necessarily make you happy.” 

Arthur silently lowers his head. 

“As for Guinevere...” Maleagant’s lips curve into a bitter smile. “I managed to convince myself quite well that she was bound to love me for no reason other than that _I_ loved her. Perhaps not even _her_ , a fantasy I have created. I—” 

He turns his head to look at Arthur. His eyes are cautious, searching, he must be wondering if he’s allowed to talk about the woman they both wanted, and— 

It _is_ a bizarre conversation. But, perhaps, Arthur _needs_ it. 

“Go on,” Arthur says. “I know there might be things I won’t be pleased to hear, but I’ve always valued your honesty.” 

“My _honesty_.” Maleagant huffs. “Some call it bluntness, others cruelty. Who do you suppose is right?” 

He doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer. 

“You know, I barely remember kidnapping her.” Maleagant halts his steps. He turns towards Arthur but doesn’t meet his gaze. He seems to be looking _through_ him, perhaps trying to recollect what truly happened that day. “My memories around the time are fuzzy, I wasn’t— I wasn’t quite _myself_ , though I admit it’s a poor excuse.”

His mouth twitches. 

“But I remember _her_. I wasn’t expecting her to love me, not at that point, no matter how delusional I was, but something in me— She _pitied_ me, she saw how far I went chasing my impossible goals, how close I was to losing myself, and though I couldn’t admit it at the time, deep inside I knew she was right. I _needed_ her understanding.” 

Arthur swallows. 

His heart is pounding in his chest. There is something in Maleagant’s words that _agitates_ him, makes him doubt and wonder and draw too many useless, unfounded parallels. He struggles to keep silent. 

“I think that’s why I was attracted to her in the first place,” Maleagant says. He finally meets Arthur’s gaze, and in the fading light of the evening, his eyes look impossible, fae-green. “I mistook her courtesy for sympathy, her kindness for favor, her willingness to listen for her ability to understand. I wanted so much more from her than she was willing—even capable—to give, and then… Then, she took away even those few things she once offered. I ceased to matter the moment she heard her beloved’s name. _Lancelot_.” 

The name is soaked with venom, with _bitterness_ that echoes in Arthur’s heart too. 

Lancelot. 

The man whom Arthur _trusted_ , the man whose honor seemed irreproachable. 

The man who took Guinevere’s heart, her kisses, her _virtue_. 

Arthur tried to convince himself, time and time again, that he couldn’t blame them for falling in love, for failing to resist the call of the most pure feeling, and yet the hurt he felt has never truly waned. His anger hasn’t. 

He _wanted_ to forgive them, but—

He never did. 

“She loved him,” Arthur says, but the words sound empty. “She _loved_ him, how can we blame her for that?”

The laugh that escapes Maleagant’s lips sounds harsh and mirthless, his nostrils flare and his lips pull into a grimace of disdain. His eyes burn with feeling Arthur can’t decipher, but its intensity startles him all the same. 

“No,” Maleagant says. “No, we can’t blame her for _loving_ him, but did she think of anyone but herself when she chose him? Did she think that maybe her wedding vows should matter more than her whims? She didn’t hesitate for long, your wife, before jumping into bed with another. For _that_ I blame her plenty. And so should you.” 

“ _Enough_.”

Arthur barely notices he raises his voice. The anger flares inside his soul, hot and all-consuming, familiar and _safe_ , because— 

Because, once more, it simply masks his fear. 

Arthur breaths through his nose and pushes his anger down, taming it, refusing to let it cloud his judgment. He’s _better_ than this. 

“Enough,” he repeats much calmer. “She was my wife, the woman I loved. Please, don’t—” 

“Then tell me,” Maleagant interrupts, his voice quiet and even, though his eyes are ablaze. “Look me in the eyes and _tell_ me, if you were in her place, if _you_ loved someone else above all reason, would you’ve done the same? Would you’ve sneaked behind your wife’s back, lied to her face, and simply continued your affair in the hope it won’t be discovered?” 

Arthur shuts his eyes. 

He can’t answer that question, can’t utter the words, but they both know the truth. 

He wouldn’t have broken his vows. He would’ve searched for another way, he’d try to talk, he’d beg for forgiveness and absolution. He would have done anything in his power to be with the person he loves, but he wouldn’t have _betrayed_ for that. 

It would’ve tainted the feeling he cherishes so deeply. 

Arthur startles when he feels Maleagant’s hand on his shoulder, a simple gesture of reassurance he hasn’t expected. He blinks and clears his throat, and pushes down the urge to step back. He meets Maleagant’s gaze, troubled but _understanding_. 

“Even if she was wrong,” Arthur murmurs. “Even though I cannot deny the truth of your words, I still don’t want to… I don’t want to put her down to make myself feel better. Please, don’t make me.” 

Maleagant nods. His fingers slide down Arthur’s arm, then linger on the back of his hand for a moment before he withdraws. 

“I won’t,” he says. “But you asked for my honesty, and that’s what you get. The things I thought I liked in Guinevere weren’t _real_. Though, even if they were, they still weren’t enough for me.”

 _Were_ they for Arthur? 

“I—” he shakes his head. “Shall we continue?” 

He needs a distraction, a moment of peace in his mind lest he crumbles. 

Maleagant simply nods. He easily falls into step with Arthur as they head deeper into the gardens. There must be a secluded alcove just a few dozens of steps down their path, a much better place to rest if they’d need it. 

“Sometimes I wonder about that too,” he admits a few moments later. “If we truly were right for each other. I remember wanting to be… I wanted to be _perfect_ for her, the bravest of knights, the wisest of kings, attentive and loving and sure of himself. I don’t even know if _she_ needed that, but—” 

He pauses, searching for the right words, but they refuse to come. 

He pushes himself to continue. 

“When I dreamed of a partner,” he says. “I imagined someone I could be _myself_ with, fallible, foolish and weak. I imagined someone I could be _strong_ for, supportive in times of need. I had neither with Guinevere. I was scared to appear weak before her, and I felt that my strength wasn’t needed, and at times—” 

At times—too often—it left Arthur feeling inadequate, _unfulfilled_. 

He hears Maleagant’s steps falter, but when Arthur looks at him he sees no pain reflected in his eyes. Just— conflict, perhaps doubt. 

“You are still young,” Maleagant says, averting his eyes. “I’m sure one day you’ll find someone like that.” 

Arthur sighs. There _is_ a whole life ahead of him, but what is he expected to _do_ with it? His duties would require of him to find a wife, either condemning himself to a loveless marriage or opening his heart once more and setting it to be broken. 

The mere thought of it makes him sick to his stomach. 

“I’m not ready to love again,” he says. “Right now it feels like I’ll never be, though I recognize how foolish it sounds. But I… I forgot how to _trust_ , and what’s love without it?” 

Trust is a rare gift he hasn’t cherished enough. He has but slivers of it left, precious and fragile. He can’t imagine giving them to a stranger. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Maleagant’s mouth drop into an unhappy, miserable line. Arthur wishes he could’ve found words that didn’t sound so hopeless and bleak, he wishes he could’ve seemed more optimistic… 

But he _isn’t_. And he doesn’t want to lie. 

“Let’s sit down,” Maleagant says, his words unfittingly sharp and biting. “I’m tired.”

Arthur doesn’t argue. 

He pauses in the alcove he was meaning to reach, right next to the stone bench hidden under the shade of evergreen trees. He doesn’t ask Maleagant if he needs any help, he simply _offers_ it, and it is comforting how both of them seem to be used to it by now, how Maleagant ceased to see it as something humiliating and degrading. 

Once they are seated, Arthur stretches his legs and crosses them at the ankles. Tilting his head back, he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with crisp autumn air. It smells of wet leaves and pine needles, of rain and sunshine, of nature’s _gentleness_ that won’t last long. The fogs will come soon, the endless muted grey that will last well past midday. The sun will set earlier too. 

It will be _worse_ then. Harder to fight the fatigue of the soul, harder to make himself keep going, and when Arthur returns to Camelot... When he leaves Maleagant behind, it will be harder still to live. 

Gods, he was so elated to discover the connection between them, he didn’t stop to think how it would feel to _lose_ it. He doesn’t want to put an end to their relationship, he will do everything in his power to keep it, but— 

When they are days of journey apart, how can this be _enough_?

Arthur rubs his face. The things they’ve talked about, the thoughts they invoked leave him discomforted and restless, _troubled_ for the reason he can’t articulate. 

“What did you—” he starts, then swallows painfully, his throat oddly tight. “What did _you_ want from love? What did you dream of?” 

Maleagant huffs a mirthless laugh. 

“I wanted a pretty picture,” he says. “I wanted a person who would accept me, who would admire and cherish me, who would— give and give and _give._ It took me too long to accept that this would never work, that it’s not enough to simply choose someone capable of loving me, I need to be willing to give something in turn. The irony is that now I have nothing to give.” 

“That’s—” Arthur shakes his head. “That’s simply not true. You are still _you_. You have your wit, your honesty, your empathy, and your understanding. You’re a good company. _I_ enjoy your company plenty, much more than I thought I would. You have plenty to give. Much more than a lot of people I know, and—” 

Arthur chews on his lip, unsure how to choose the right words to say. He knows deep in his heart that Maleagant could be a wonderful partner. It’s not always easy to deal with him, but there is something in him that makes it feel _worth_ it. 

He’s challenging and captivating, he doesn’t do things half-way, and Arthur is sure that he _would_ give all of him to the person he’d find deserving. 

“I am a cripple, Arthur,” Maleagant says with bitter finality. “My body doesn’t work, my mind is broken, and this isn’t going to _change_. There is not enough magic in this whole world to make my life better. Not… not in the ways that matter.” 

Gods, how much Arthur wants to _argue_ , but— 

He knows that words are empty, and even his actions don’t mean much. He can’t rewrite their history and erase everything that went wrong, he can’t heal the wounds left on Maleagant’s body, but his soul… 

His soul, Arthur thinks, still can be mended. 

Perhaps he isn’t truly powerless to help. 

“Everything matters,” Arthur murmurs. He raises his head to meet Maleagant’s eyes and offers him a soft, reassuring smile. “I think… How about we head back to your chambers? We’ll have some wine, you’ll read me one of your awfully boring books and I’ll rub your feet. Won’t it be _better_ then, just the tiniest bit?” 

“Just the tiniest bit,” Maleagant echoes. 

His mouth twitches. The smile that touches his lips is hesitant and oddly shy, but it is _beautiful_ all the same. 

It gives Arthur hope. 

Though his stay in Gore won’t last, though darkness that plagues Maleagant’s soul still holds too much power, they _will_ find a way to keep going. 

Arthur promises himself he won’t give up.


	4. the parting

Maleagant lies on his back, spread naked atop of the covers. His breathing is even and slow, but his mind is full of annoying, constant buzzing of thoughts, of questions without answers, of hopes and doubts and—

It’s _better_ than emptiness, but not by much. 

The pain he feels now is still torturing, the fear that fills his soul eats him alive, and yet he lets them stay. He lets them stay for if he chases them away, they would take something _precious_ with them. 

Closing his eyes, Maleagant traces with his fingertips a line from his chest and to his stomach. The skin under his touch is dry and paper-thin, stretched tight over the fragile bones. It’s been a while since he properly looked in a mirror, but he still glimpsed enough to know the image he presents. 

There is nothing attractive about him these days, he’s _ugly_ the way that he is, but why should it matter? 

If he lets his imagination run wild, he could believe this careful, barely-there touch belongs to _another_ —the man who came into his life uninvited, the man who single-handedly destroyed the order Maleagant created. He _hated_ that order, and so— 

And so, he’s grateful. 

And so, he cannot let go. 

Maleagant knows Arthur’s touch. He knows his hands, strong and long-fingered, calloused and yet unfailingly gentle. It feels so easy to take what is familiar to them and make it into something _else_. 

Arthur’s fingers would pause in the dip of Maleagant’s navel, they would tease his stomach with feather-light, tickling touches. And when they’d coax a laugh out of his lips, Arthur’s smile would be open and brilliant. His eyes would be happy, and his kisses would be sweeter than wine and just as intoxicating. 

Maleagant exhales. He can feel heat pooling low in his stomach, the first tentative sign of arousal, a half-forgotten sensation. He wonders if he should take this fantasy further, if it’d be enough to get him to climax for the first time in years. 

He opens his eyes. This is _pathetic_. What is the point in wasting his time on these dreams? 

The healers said he’s unlikely to ever father children, unlikely to satisfy a lover, and though the direst of their predictions didn’t come true, this one just _might_. 

And then, it’s not even his desire for Arthur that truly troubles his mind. 

Desire is simple, straightforward, and clear. In a way, it’s been with him for a long while, although acknowledging it certainly took time. 

Maleagant still vividly remembers the day he met Arthur in battle, self-righteous and wrathful and ready to protect his trusted ally. He remembers how his mouth went dry at the sight of him, how anticipation coiled tightly in his stomach. Of course, he pushed those feelings away, he held onto the thought of getting Guinevere and the desired throne. He couldn’t allow himself to falter, to hesitate even for a moment before driving the blade straight into Arthur’s gut. 

He didn’t. He _didn’t_ hesitate and still he lost, humiliated and put in his place, but— 

He cannot truly regret it. He cannot regret that Arthur _lives_. 

With a wince, Maleagant pushes himself up into a sitting position. The faint tendrils of arousal have already waned and disappeared, scared off by his musings, and he sees no point in trying to coax them back. 

It’s high time he gets up and tries to make himself at least somewhat presentable. 

He has a duty to fulfill. He has to say his goodbyes. 

Arthur’s stay in Gore has finally come to an end. It lasted well over a month, a few weeks more than was expected or needed. It felt both like an eternity and the briefest, most fleeting of moments. It wasn’t _enough_. 

The connection between them is a thick mess of threads, but hardly a rope. It will come undone when there is nothing to hold it together, it will be discarded, abandoned, forgotten—by _Arthur_. 

Maleagant is too far gone. 

He sunk into the mess of his feelings like it was quicksand, he failed to notice the danger until it was too late. He thought himself lonely and starved for company, he thought Arthur’s to be unexpectedly tolerable, but hardly more than that. 

Still, they’ve spent almost every day together, much more than Maleagant has ever allowed anyone outside of his family. They’ve talked about everything and nothing, they’ve argued about the books Arthur tried hard to enjoy, they’ve stayed in silence too and it has never felt _wrong_. 

It wasn’t always easy. 

Maleagant is a difficult person to deal with, he’s bitter and moody, he hurts people and drives them away. Arthur was a fool to open up to him, to trust him with his worries and fears and everything that troubles his heart. Maleagant would never use those things against him, but— 

He still _prodded_ on the still-healing wounds, he still didn’t hold back his sharp and biting remarks. During those past weeks, he thinks he hurt Arthur more than _ever_ before, and yet— 

Yet, even after their worst arguments, even after the most unforgivable things he’d said, Arthur kept coming back.

He kept coming back and he’s never, _ever_ asked for an apology. 

Maleagant has never given him one, but he _wanted to_. Isn’t that a miracle of itself? 

He lets out a harsh, self-mocking laugh, then forces himself out of his bed. He still gets dizzy when he gets up too fast, but it’s a minor obstacle to overcome. 

He’s been getting better, if he’s honest with himself. Not much, but certainly enough to notice. It feels a little less painful to wake up when he has something to look forward to, a little easier to make himself eat if only to avoid Arthur’s silent scolding. 

Maleagant’s body still puts up a fight, his sickness still wins most of the time, and yet sometimes he catches himself thinking that maybe he buried himself too early. 

A dangerous thought, but hope _is_ dangerous. 

This is the price he pays.

Carefully stretching his muscles, Maleagant reaches for the undershirt left atop of the bedside chest. He refuses to wait for the servants to help him with dressing, he sends them off even more often than when he was healthy, but it’s a matter of pride to prove to himself that he _can_ do things on his own. 

And then, without their suffocating presence and their pitying gazes, while his body is focused on a tedious, meticulous task, he can allow his thoughts to roam freely. 

Even if perhaps it would be better to keep them reined in. 

Maleagant frowns, his fingers absentmindedly smoothing the creases of his shirt. 

It seems so ridiculous, preposterous— _inevitable_ —that he would fall for _Arthur_ of all people. The man he used to despise. The man he thought to be a foolish child, disrespectful and rude, so naturally arrogant he probably didn’t even see himself as such. 

There was a time Maleagant worked hard to convince the barons— _himself_ —that there is nothing to admire in Arthur, that he’s unworthy of the crown, that his soul isn’t pure like Excalibur claimed it to be. Of course it didn’t work. It wasn’t _true_ , and Maleagant accepted it with his defeat, but then—

Then, he simply caught himself in yet another lie. 

He took the image of his foe imprinted in his mind, he took the rumors and the songs and merged them all together to create a falsehood. An image of a perfect ruler, compassionate and wise, an image of a perfect warlord, perfect lover, perfect— 

A perfect, _unattainable_ ideal. 

In truth, Arthur is neither of those lies.

In truth, he’s both, he’s _so much more._

He is imperfect and human and unfailingly _good_. 

He’s everything Maleagant has ever wanted. 

He truly doesn’t do things halfway, does he? He can’t desire Arthur’s company, his body, and not crave _everything else too._ His soul. His heart. He wants to be the one to accept Arthur’s weakness and rely on his strength, he wants to be the one to give him everything that’s left of him, but— 

But. 

Maleagant’s lips curve into a bitter smile. 

He can’t have what he wants. This line of thinking, this _entitlement_ is what led him to where he is now, broken beyond repair, struggling to find the meaning of his life. 

His feelings for Arthur _can’t_ be his lifeline. 

They may hold him afloat for a while, they may give him enough strength to fight for another unreachable goal, but in the end— 

In the end, he’ll still be alone and unhappy, abandoned, discarded, _forgotten_. 

Even if by some insane, unlikely twist of fate, his feelings would be returned, they simply won’t last. One day, Arthur will heal from the darkness that plagues his heart. One day, he will be whole again, but Maleagant _won’t._

He won’t be able to give Arthur what he truly deserves. 

And he can’t bear the thought of not being _enough_. 

Maleagant exhales. He lowers himself onto the edge of his bed to put on his breeches and boots. He’s almost ready to go, but the sun has barely started to rise, and so he has time to prepare himself—

For what? A quick, impersonal goodbye in front of too many people? 

He wonders if it’s too foolish to hope that Arthur will come to him first, that they will have one last moment together. Last time, they didn’t part on good terms. They didn’t fight, but Maleagant still failed to hold himself from lashing out. He doesn’t even quite remember what he said, but the genuine hurt that flashed in Arthur’s eyes is harder to forget. 

Why would he come back after this? 

Why did he come back after each time this happened before?

Gods, Maleagant wishes he could be someone else. Someone much kinder, much more easygoing. Once, he tried to deceive Guinevere into thinking that that’s what he _was_ , but lying to Arthur feels _wrong—_

The truth isn’t good enough either. 

Maleagant grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. He feels like there is a lump lodged in his throat, his eyes are burning, but he knows he won’t cry. He almost wishes he _could_ , if only to release this awful feeling that’s trapped in his chest, but he— 

He jerks his head up when he hears a soft knock on the door. 

“Come in,” he exhales, his voice cracking. 

_Of course_ Arthur came. 

Of course. Why doesn’t Maleagant feel relieved? 

The door opens with a creak, letting Arthur into the chambers. He’s dressed in his travel clothes, dark leathers and thick woolen cloak. There is something off in the way he holds himself, and it takes Maleagant a moment to notice that he’s cradling something small to his chest. Something _delicate_ from the looks of it and Maleagant can’t help but feel curious of what it might be. 

If Arthur notices his questioning gaze, he doesn’t show it. 

“Arthur,” Maleagant raises his eyebrows. “I take it you’re ready to leave?” 

“Not quite,” Arthur offers him a small, warm smile. “Not without saying a proper goodbye, and… I hoped we could spend a little time together. If you don’t mind?”

The corner of Maleagant’s mouth twitches. Why would _he_ mind? 

Arthur has never done a thing to discomfort him. 

“I don’t,” he murmurs. “Of course I don’t.” 

He watches Arthur as he comes closer to the bed and lowers himself on its edge, still oddly careful with his mysterious bundle. What sort of thing he might’ve brought here? What _for_? 

“How are you feeling?” Arthur asks. 

“Quite well.” 

Maleagant has certainly been better, but he’s been worse as well, and though he doesn’t need Arthur’s compassion—not _now_ —he still appreciates that it is offered. 

He had too many people—his _father_ , once—tell him he needs to get a grip and pull himself together, stop wallowing in self-pity and _do something_ , but the wound he suffered from three years ago didn’t just hurt his flesh. It poisoned his _soul_ , and while he no longer believes it cannot be cured, he still needs time.

He still doesn’t know if a lifetime of healing could be enough. 

“So what do you have here?” he asks, nodding at the bundle in Arthur’s arms. “You are being awfully secretive about it.” 

Arthur sends him a sheepish smile. 

“A present,” he says. “Something that I— Something you don’t have to accept, I realize that it can be too much, but I thought—” 

He chews on his lip, hesitant and oddly anxious, which only piques Maleagant’s curiosity further. 

“It’s, well...” Arthur exhales. Visibly braving himself, he slowly unwraps the cloth, revealing something pitch-black and furry and very much _alive_.

“A kitten,” Maleagant says flatly. 

It must be the kitchen cat’s offspring, but why bring it here? 

The kitten in Arthur’s palms is _tiny_. It wakes up and yawns, showing its pink mouth and needle-sharp teeth, then binks at Maleagant with its huge blue-gray eyes. 

“It’s a girl,” Arthur says. “Here, hold her.”

Bemused, Maleagant lets Arthur put the kitten on his lap. Letting out a pitiful mewling sound, she sinks her claws into his thighs and arches her back, but when he offers her his palm, she sniffs at it with curiosity and not distrust. 

“What—” Maleagant clears his throat. 

He doesn’t know what to say that wouldn’t offend Arthur who looks at him wide-eyed and hopeful, perhaps expecting gratitude or joy, but Maleagant is just _confused_. 

Arthur lets out a laugh and shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sure this seems odd to you, but… When I was little—about five, perhaps six—I got very sick. I had to spend over a month in bed, and I was feeling utterly miserable and lonely. _And_ bored out of my mind. But then my brother—my foster brother, Kay—brought me a kitten. He thought it’d entertain me for a while, and it _did_ , and then it sort of grew on me, and—” 

He shrugs awkwardly. 

“It made my days brighter. I hope that maybe she will brighten yours.”

Maleagant’s lips twitch. He feels amused and inexplicably fond, although the saner part of him most certainly questions Arthur’s judgment. 

“So you decided that I’m miserable,” he says, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the kitten’s back. “And lonely. _And_ bored. Is that it?” 

It is the truth, of course, and they both know that, but Maleagant is hardly a child that could be entertained by playing with a pet. Still— 

He lowers his eyes to look at the kitten who’s already curled in a tight ball on his lap, so awfully trusting and unafraid. Perhaps bringing her here wasn’t an awful idea. Of course she will never, not _ever_ replace Arthur, but she’s his _gift_. 

She’s warm and alive, she’s a promise that even after they part ways, their history together won’t be forgotten. 

“I think you could use some company,” Arthur says, his voice gentle and his eyes full of warmth. “I think you’ll get lonely when I am no longer here. I think… I think that sometimes taking care of someone else helps you get better too.” 

There is something oddly profound in these words, but Maleagant wonders if Arthur even realizes that he’s talking about them too. 

Taking care of Maleagant, being there for him, sharing his loneliness and soothing his pain, Arthur _has been getting better too_. 

He’s better. One day, he’ll be truly well. 

Just this once, Maleagant doesn’t allow this thought to turn bitter.

“If you feed her and care for her, she will keep coming to you,” Arthur says. “Cats are actually very affectionate. She’ll love you, I promise, if only you love her.” 

It would be so much easier if human relationships worked that way, but—

What Arthur says still sounds _tempting_. Maleagant _does_ want someone to love him, even if it’s that small foolish creature that quietly purrs on his lap. 

He knows that things won’t be as easy as Arthur describes, but he’s still fairly sure he’ll be able to take care of the cat without involving the servants too much. 

And then, as he meets Arthur’s still-hopeful eyes, Maleagant realizes that he simply cannot refuse him. He doesn’t want to destroy what’s left of this boy’s naivety, compassion, and kindness. He’d rather preserve them. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, gently petting the kitten between her warm tiny ears. “I appreciate your gift, although I do consider it rather poorly thought out.” 

“Ah…” Arthur looks sheepish. “I put quite a lot of thought in it, actually.”

“By your standards, perhaps,” Maleagant raises his eyebrows. 

Arthur just laughs. Shifting closer, he presses his thigh against Maleagant’s and leans in to carefully pet the kitten across her small back. There is a hint of a smile hidden in the corners of his lips, his gaze looks impossibly soft, and Maleagant can’t stop _staring_ at him—at the faint shadow his dark eyelashes cast on his cheeks, at the smattering of barely-there freckles on his nose, at how inviting his mouth looks. 

It feels so natural—so _tempting_ —to simply tilt his head and capture Arthur’s lips with his, to catch a startled look in his eyes and his surprised exhale.

Maleagant’s throat tightens. It doesn’t matter how badly his very being _longs_ for this, it doesn’t matter that it seems like he could just reach out and _take it—_

This isn’t something he can have. 

Arthur raises his head to meet Maleagant’s gaze. His smile is gentle, his eyes are full of quiet happiness, and even if it will not last, right now it’s _there_. Maleagant is the _reason_ it’s there, and that— 

That should be enough. 

That _is_ enough. 

“I should be leaving in an hour,” Arthur says. “I wish I could’ve stayed longer, but I have duties I cannot ignore. Still— May I write to you?”

“Write to me?” Maleagant echoes. 

Somehow, this thought didn’t even cross his mind. Somehow, he’s always imagined a clean break, a _maybe-someday_ at best, but this—

This would keep a _connection_ between them. 

This would give Maleagant something to hold on to. 

Perhaps he wasn’t foolish to hope. 

“I— yes.” For a moment, Arthur looks uncertain. “We’ve both known that eventually I’d have to leave Gore, but that doesn’t mean… We are friends, aren’t we?”

A dry, unamused laugh escapes Maleagant’s lips. 

_Friends_. What a foolish notion. He’s never had friends, not in the true sense of the word. He’s never learned how to let someone in, crave their company and their attention, and not ask for _everything_. 

What he wants from Arthur is so much more than he’s willing to give, but— 

That doesn’t mean Maleagant doesn’t cherish what little they have. 

Perhaps there _is_ something his downfall taught him. 

“We are,” he says quietly. “ _Of course_ we are. And of course you can write to me. Whenever you have something to share, whenever you need my advice, whenever some foolish thought comes to your mind and you require a voice of reason, _do_ write to me. I... will be looking forward to your letters.” 

Arthur sighs. 

Bumping their shoulders together, he finds Maleagant’s hand and intertwines their fingers. His palm is calloused, his skin is warm, his closeness is _overwhelming_. Maleagant’s breath catches in his throat. 

Gods, how _easy_ it feels to read this the wrong way. 

He knows this doesn’t mean a thing. He knows that Arthur isn’t looking for a partner, and even if he were he’d surely choose someone else. 

He’s just a tactile person, he’s touch-starved, he _needs_ this, and Maleagant— 

Maleagant cannot refuse him. 

“And you…” Arthur says, his voice soft and his gaze even softer. “I want to know _all_ about you. Your kitten’s name, what books you read, how is your health… If you feel well without me. I—” he swallows. “I’m going to miss you. So much.”

Maleagant silently squeezes his fingers. 

“I wish I could give you a hug,” Arthur murmurs. “I _would_ , but I don’t want to wake up the kitten. A bit later, perhaps…” 

“Just not in front of the crowd,” Maleagant says dryly. 

Arthur chuckles and lets go of his hand. 

Maleagant feels his skin is tingling, a sensation that Arthur’s touch never ceases to bring. He’ll remember this moment, _every_ moment between them, and maybe this— his memories, Arthur’s letters, his foolish gift—will be enough to keep him going. 

“I’ll miss you too,” he adds, his voice quiet. 

His honesty is a small thing, a poor payback for everything Arthur has done for him. It doesn’t feel comparable, but this is all he has. Perhaps one day, he will have more. 

One day, they’ll surely meet again.


End file.
